La leçon
by intagliosfera
Summary: Oh, to be a fly on the wall during a voice lesson from the Angel of Music! Oneshot. This story has been registered with the WGAw.


_There is a website at double-u double-u double-u dot nickscott dot com slash audio that has archival recordings of many opera arias, including "Ah! Non credea mirarti". I am especially fond of the one by Renata Scotto from 1961 with Alfredo Krause singing the tenor line._

La leçon

There is a tiny chapel in the Opera Populaire. It is tucked away in the southeastern corner of the edifice, far away from the bustling commotion of the street or the stage. The chapel is at the end of a long passageway, past the storerooms housing the costume dead stock and dry goods. Only a few of the performers and stage workers have bothered with the little room, preferring to make their professions of faith in more sociable surroundings. To Christine Daae, it is a second home.

Christine hurries in. The familiar environs are a comfort to her. The little altar is slightly dusty, so she wipes it hastily with her handkerchief. She lights a candle before her father's portrait. The afternoon sun makes the stained-glass angel in the window glow with hues of ruby, emerald, and sapphire.

The blindfold is waiting in its place on top of a little spinet piano. Christine picks it up and ties the padded silk tightly across her eyes as she waits for her Angel of Music. He had told her long ago that it was risky to set eyes upon an angel. She has no wish to be blinded by his radiance.

Christine hears the faintest rustling. The scent of sandalwood and leather fills the air. If the Virgin Mary is heralded by the sweet fragrance of roses, why wouldn't an angel smell like a masculine, powerful protector?

He is here.

"Are you prepared for your lesson, child?" His voice is low, but musical and vibrant.

"I am, Master."

He plays a chord on the piano. "Then, on Ah-" As he arpeggiates the chords, Christine softly vocalizes ascending fifths.

He stops her occasionally, "Do not attack from the back of your throat. On the breath!" Christine's voice warms up, gaining freedom and surprising power. "Now, octave jumps," the Angel commands. Within ten minutes of vocalizing, Christine's voice is moving flexibly and freely from low A to the E above high C.

The chords cease. Christine stands ready for the next part of the lesson.

"Have you memorized the aria I assigned you?"

"Yes, Angel. 'Ah! Non credea mirarti' from Bellini's 'La Sonnambula'."

"Translate that."

"It means, 'Ah, I never thought to see you' and the opera's title means 'The Sleepwalker."

Christine can sense her Angel's presence very near to her. It becomes hard to stand up straight. Her knees become like jelly.

"Very good, Christine. Tell me the story of the opera."

"Why does it matter? The Opera Populaire isn't presenting it--"

"Do you wish to be a trained seal, barking for fish?" the Angel roars. "An artist always knows everything about the work she presents!"

Christine trembles where she stands. She has displeased her Angel. "I'm sorry, Master," she murmurs.

"The story, if you will." His tone is icy.

"Amina is a virtuous orphan girl in the Swiss Alps, betrothed to a young man. Her village becomes rife with reports of a ghostly figure wandering the countryside at night, but it is really Amina, who is sleepwalking. When Amina is seen entering the local Duke's castle, her fiancé thinks she has betrayed him and denounces her. That night, before the entire village, Amina sleepwalks over a fragile rope bridge that spans a fearsome mountain chasm. She alights and sings this aria while still asleep."

"You memorized the synopsis in the libretto," he comments dryly. "What occurs after the aria?"

"Amina awakens to find her fiancé begging her forgiveness. Her virtue has been proven and they will be happy forever."

"The divergence of art and life. Shall we begin?"

The softest footfalls tell Christine that her Angel is again at the keyboard. The introduction begins. Christine inhales deeply and sings—

"Ah! Non credea mirarti

(Ah, I never thought to see you)

si presto estinto, o fiore;

(so quickly destroyed, oh flowers;)

passasti, al par d'amore"

(you have passed away like love)

"Stop! And cease your squirming!"

Christine cannot help tossing her head when she wears the blindfold. Sometimes the Angel's voice seems to travel around the room. She can never be sure where he is.

"Was something wrong, Angel?"

"You are singing behind the rhythm."

"But I was singing with the accompaniment!" The faint rustle of linen, the intensification of the Angel's scent, tells Christine that he is close to her again.

"That is your mistake, child. The orchestra must play an even, flowing figure," and here the Angel plays the first two measures, "but you, Christine, must sing a dotted rhythm against it."

"It feels so funny. It feels wrong."

"It is called a hemiola and it is a mark of Bellini's quality as a composer. The pull of the differing rhythms illustrates Amina's sleeping state—she is in a different awareness. The waking world versus the dreaming world."

"You make it sound so beautiful, Angel."

"Now sing it beautifully." The Angel begins the introduction again, molding the fluid, pliant phrases until it seems as if there is a real orchestra in the little chapel. Christine opens her mouth again and sings with confidence.

"Ah! Non credea mirarti

(Ah, I never thought to see you)

si presto estinto, o fiore;

(so quickly destroyed, oh flowers;)

passasti, al par d'amore,

(you have passed away like love)

che un giorno solo, che un giorno sol duro."

(that lasted only one day, only one day)

As Christine voices 'duro', the Angel provides the tenor's line, singing in a high, ineffably sweet tone—

"Io pìu non reggo"

(I cannot bear it)

and Christine answers with Amina's heartbroken line—

"passasti al par d'amore"

(you have died like love)

only to be echoed by the Angel's tenor once again—

"Più non reggo a tanto duolo!"

(I cannot bear so much pain!)

The accompaniment surges, becoming more passionate with every note. The Angel calls out over the swelling music, "Now, breathe!"

Christine stands firmly, dwelling inside the music. She is becoming the sleepwalking Amina in her mind, the girl who believes her love is lost, when in truth he is right beside her, if only she would open her eyes…

"Potria novel vigore il pianto, il pianto mio recarti ,

(perhaps my tears could restore you to life)

ma ravvivar l'amore

(but to restore love)

On 'l'amore', Christine launches a trill that would do the nightingale justice. "Lovely," the Angel murmurs, "so lovely."

il pianto mio, ah no, non puo."

(my tears cannot restore love)

At the cadenza, Christine sings the cascading phrases just the way her Angel has taught her; first mezzo-forte, then piano, floating into pianissimo, then swelling back into the sweetest forte. At the last 'amore', the Angel takes up the accompaniment again, finishing the aria on the keyboard. He releases the keys. The music hangs in the air like a stolen kiss will hang upon the lips.

Christine clasps her hands, willing herself to be strong in the face of the Angel's critique. There is always something to work on, something to improve…Will he be angry with her?

At last, the Angel makes his pronouncement. In a voice that, in a human being, Christine would describe as choked with emotion, the Angel declares, "That was true singing, true music."

Christine can tell that her Angel is very close to her. His warm, heavenly breath tickles the nape of her neck. Christine feels dizzy from the proximity and lurches forward. She feels a strong hand upon her shoulder for the briefest, most fleeting moment.

"Christine, I believe that you are ready to make your debut. Have you been reviewing all the roles we worked on, the ones the Opera Populaire is performing this season?" The Angel's voice has a certain urgency in it, as though he is thinking deeply, planning something.

"Yes, I have them all memorized. 'La Fille du Regiment,' 'Il Barbiere de Seville,' and of course, 'Hannibal'. But I'm dancing in that one…"

"Christine, you have the divine gift of song and an adequate aptitude for dance. Do not lose your focus," the Angel growls, perhaps more harshly than necessary. "And do not slouch. It is the enemy of singing."

Christine stands as tall as her petite stature will permit. She knows that the lesson is coming to its conclusion. The Angel, with a feather-light touch, corrects her posture. He takes her head in his large hands and gently pulls her skull upwards, so that it is properly positioned over her spine. As he stands before her, he levels her shoulders, again, so softly that it is more of a breath than a touch.

The back of an Angelic hand presses against her stomach, just above her navel. "Remember, Christine, the engine of your support comes from here, never your throat," he intones in that hypnotic, resonant voice.

"Master, may I ask you a question?" Christine is afraid to ask, but she is more afraid of not asking. If she makes her debut, she can't do it with a blindfold! Yet she must have her Angel beside her…near her. She takes his silence for permission to continue. "May I please see you? Somehow, won't you please reveal yourself to me?" There--she says the words and she does not die from fear.

The Angel gives what sounds like a little gasp, but angels surely are not surprised. In a hesitant voice, he muses, "I will give it thought, Christine. Many elements must be in place for such a thing to happen. But I will think upon it." The Angel takes Christine tenderly by the chin. "Now, show me your mouth. Relaxed tongue, resting against your bottom teeth."

Christine obediently opens her little mouth to him. Her breath is sweet from the anise dentifrice the Angel instructed her to use. Her teeth are white and even, and her pink tongue lies flat and without tension. The perfect singer's mouth, even if she is reluctant to open it more widely…

"Christine, you will produce more resonance if you open your mouth to the width of two fingers." The Angel, fixed upon teaching his willing pupil, slides his index and middle fingers directly past the girl's moist lips and into her mouth. "Like this."

Christine feels an electrical bolt shoot through her, from her lips straight down to her pelvis, setting everything in between on fire! There is a tang of salty perspiration on the Angel's fingers. Without hesitation, like a primal instinct, Christine sucks on the fingers intruding into her mouth, willing them to go deeper. Her little groan prevents her from hearing the Angel's shocked sigh.

The Angel pulls his fingers from Christine's mouth. After a moment, he releases her chin with the faintest trace of a caress. "The lesson is concluded. You did very well. We have both learned something today." The Angel's voice begins to become more distant.

Christine starts toward his receding voice. "Master!" she calls insistently, "You won't forget my request, will you?"

She hears that soft whirr of linen and silk again. He has stopped. "The opening for 'Hannibal' is the day after tomorrow, is it not?" The question is framed in the Angel's most musical, velvety voice. The one she loves best.

"Be prepared, Christine. Perhaps that will be the night your eyes will be opened."

And he is gone. Christine removes the blindfold from her eyes and places it back upon the spinet piano. In its usual place. And of course, her reward is waiting for her in its usual place too, upon the delicate altar.

A blood-red rose without a single thorn, adorned with a black silk ribbon that has been tied in a lover's knot.


End file.
